CONTRACT NO.: 2810
NAME: [REDACTED]
CODE NAME: D.C.
OCCUPATION: FREELANCE [REDACTED] JANITOR
CONTRACT LOCATION: SANTA’S WORKSHOP
CLIENT CODENAME: M.O.T.H.E.R.
BRIEF: YOUR CONTRACT HERE IS TO CLEAN UP THE AFTERMATH OF SANTA'S RAMPAGE. REMEMBER, NO PHYSICAL SENTIMENTS NOR LOSING YOUR FOCUS ON THE JOB ALLOWED. ONCE YOU’RE DONE, THE RIGHTS OF OWNERSHIP TO THE WORKSHOP, INCLUDING ITS REMAINING EMPLOYEES AND ANYTHING OF VALUE, WILL BE HANDED OVER TO ME.
(SIDE NOTE: NO NEED TO WORRY ABOUT SANTA, MY MEN WILL TAKE CARE OF HIM. AND MAKE SURE TO USE THE SLOSH-O-MATIC.)
OVER AND OUT.
.
.
.
After a while of offering prays to the unfortunate souls, D.C. fluttered his eyes open and saw the fireplace before him. The reddish orange and some blue hues of the flames had spread wide apart in the firebox as if seemingly roaring at him.
Of course, the fire would grow at an alarming rate as it was eating away and reducing those countless corpses, he’d unfortunately had to toss in, to mere ashes and cinders. Their burned corpses mixing in with the fire logs, no longer able to distinguish between the two.
He couldn’t help casting an apologetic look at the last remaining bodies that had been burning away. Even if he was not involved prior to the cause of Santa’s mental breakdown nor his ongoing rampage, he was dumping away their bodies as if…
They were nothing but waste that needed to be disposed of. As if they had no family nor friends beyond the walls of this workshop.
Nothing at all.
‘But then again,’ he let out a sigh, turning his gaze away. And that thought lingered once more, ‘I’m in no position to… to…’
Immediately, he prevented himself from having further thoughts and placed it at the very back of his mind. He then glimpsed at that same fireplace for a moment, “the least I could do is to pray for them.”
To be honest, there was no certainty that his prayers could bring peace to their souls. He’d like to believe so, but reality was no all-complete blacks and whites and that he knew better. The only reason he did it was to pay his respects to them.
To acknowledge the fact that their existences were once present in this world. Not as a waste nor nothing, but as people. Nothing more, nothing less.
And besides, it was not like these little acts of sentimentality will arouse the attention of his client. Not like back when he was still new to the job and insisted upon providing them, the bodies for an even more previous contract, a proper burial…
Even if it meant receiving beatings in return, but it was all for naught.
“In the end,” D.C. ended up breathing a little too heavily, causing fogs in his goggles and obscuring his already limited vision. While waiting for it to fade away, he continued on, “that misplaced compassion led to more perishing,” with a defeated tone to his voice. His mind drifting off a little to that time…
“The next time you pull a stunt like this on your other clients like you did to me… just do remember the deaths of those supposedly uninvolved parties will be in your hands. You and you alone,” was what his previous client had informed him then, a condescending sneer on their lips at that.
Even now, it hurt him to recall that memory.
But that was all in the past and he will never make the same mistake. Ever.
“Right, this is all I could do. Just this,” for one last time, he said it again. His head circling back to that burning within the fireplace, a slow and almost ceremonial-like bow came with it. Like bidding a final farewell to these poor souls, but not quite. At least not yet.
Lastly, he closed his eyes and stood still for a short while, letting a bit of time to tick away and out of his grasp. A moment of silence and peace in the floors of blood and destruction.
Then, D.C. reopened them with one thought in mind: it was time to resume his task at hand.
But as he grabbed a mop and bucket, he turned to his back at once. A pair of indigo eyes, that though could only see so much in limited lenses, had narrowed in suspicion.
For some reason, he sensed something. One that he couldn’t quite place.
After minutes of turning and looking, he thought to himself, ‘must be the paranoia kicking in,’ before waving it away and moving on with his work.
~Notice of Personal Interest~
Log no.: 666
Code Name: ALIS
Occupation: Phantom Thief
LOCATION: Some Christmas Gramp’s Workshop
Object of Interest: Retrieve the present with the purple wrappings, white ribbons, and empty set symbol.
.
.
.
With her knees on snow and back hunched over the hopper windows, ALIS watched the person in the blue hazmat suit cleaning as if it had been regular janitorial duties and not that of a crime scene.
Her eyes closely followed their movements; a pull and then force being inserted on that handle, letting those large hairy-like strands to soak up all the blood. As a result, less stains on the wooden floors and more in said cleaning equipment.
Lifting the mop up high and twirling it around until it hovered over a bucket. Then, one gentle plunge into the collective waters and out. A few times it had been done before the mop’s head had been rid of the blood.
And such actions started over and in repeat.
‘A murder scene janitor, huh…’ She mused to herself, a playful grin to her lips. ‘I’ve never encountered one before.’
Normally, on her escapades, it was hostile and opposing parties like guards or the police she’d have to confront. Well, whenever they were notified of something that had been taken away by her.
Not like she got captured once by them. But right now, that wasn’t so important…
And that certain individual, on the other hand…
“Well, well, my objective will have to wait,” she said in a hushed voice, though a tone full of mischief and glee. Tugging a handful of her cloak and moving it to her person, she vanished the next second.
A few thrusts and with the water being dyed with deep red, D.C. pulled the mop out of the bucket. The thick threads, though heavy with dampness, was free of the blood he’d been wiping off the floors.
But the bucket was not. In fact, it was much fuller of that reddish substance than it was with water which gave it a slimier feel when pulling the mop out.
So, with that in mind, he placed the mop down by letting its handle lean on a nearby wall. Some seconds of kneeling on one knee to grab the bucket, he got up to his feet and went over to the entrance door.
By the time he was in front of the door, his other hand gave a reluctant shake at the sight of the doorknob as if not initially wanting to turn it. D.C. could merely sigh in resignation and wave the feeling away. After all enduring everyday inconveniences, especially the measly ones, was part of his job.
It was no wonder contract killers, members of the mafia, and serial murderers would always dump the dullsome chore of having to clean up the bizarrely mess to them: the murder scene janitors. ‘Well, thankfully it pays well and there’s confidentiality to our identities,’ he mused with a shrug before his other hand reached out to the knob and twisted it around and open.
Though he braced himself for the cold, there came the wintery winds of the North Pole that had given him quite a feisty greeting. Even if he hardly felt the freezing chills (given his suit), his legs and arms still trembled against the strong currents. In efforts to not be blown away and get the floor all dirty again, D.C. planted his boots to the ground and hunched his back over.
Moving the positions of his arms and having his other hand also take hold of the bucket, the item was then squeezed between his armpit and the side of his chest. With one forceful shove, the contents of the bucket was tossed out in the air and down into the thick blanket floors of snow.
‘With this kind of weather, the snow should quickly cover it up,’ was his immediate assumption and the next second was D.C. slamming the door tightly closed. All before the winds got to him, making him topple over in the process.
With the door right at his back, D.C. heaved out a couple of breaths. He had to admit that out of all the tasks that came with said cleanups, having to fight against weather was not to be taken lightly.
‘But then again,’ as if an attempt to cheer himself up, he was reminded with this fact, ‘at least the workshop’s a lot smaller, less hazards around, and much safer. If Santa doesn’t show up, that is.’
Right, how can he forget? His previous contract the other day was to clean up a spacecraft in some anonymous location and he was most definitely certain that the body parts he’d disposed of there wasn’t at all a human’s. Not with those green scales for skins and green goo leaking out from severed limbs…
‘On second thought,’ D.C stopped himself at once, him already recoiling at the recollection was a clear sign to do so, ‘I’d rather not dwell further on that…’
Thus, onto the next floor he had to mop did he eventually have to go to. But first thing’s first, he needed a new fill of clean water. Moving along and his focus on that objective, he walked in large strides before…
Finally, his steps ceased to a slow upon reaching the Slosh-O-Matic. With the machine in front of him, he walked up to it and pressed the large red button. His stretched-out finger that did just that had quivered a little, from the evident fear that this thing was capable of.
He really hoped that this time the machine wouldn’t dispense a lit dynamite and instead a bucket of cold water. He dealt more than what his fingers and toes could count and that wasn’t including the ones which were scattered about when he first entered the workshop. With that machine as part of his items to bring along.
It was a mistake on his part to have placed some good faith in his current client, M.O.T.H.E.R., whom he briefly knew to go mad with his inventions. He knew that much from his network. A blessed or accursed knowledge, that he didn’t know.
Pulling his hand away and swallowing down his nervousness, he stared at the machine in anxious-filled anticipation, ‘now that explains why he’s so insistent in having me use it for this cleanup contract.’
If beta-testing this machine on site was one of his client’s objectives, then it worked well with some mechanical flaws. Unless that was what M.O.T.H.E.R. had intended. His gloved hands shook at the likely possibility of it. Again, he so desperately hoped that it wouldn’t. This time, please.
The next second turned up and it hummed lightly. At that, he breathed out a sigh of relief as he watched the tiny metallic doors sliding to one side. All wide opened and with a bucket coming out of it. Giving a few fisted bumps to his chest, D.C. slowly felt himself at ease.
Right, onto the next step that he had done so many times. ‘Keep calm and stay focused. Now should be the easy part,’ he told himself before resuming with his task.
Carefully, he grabbed said water bucket and placed it on the ground in front of him. Crouching down with both knees, he shoved a hand to his pockets and took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. While opening its lid, he twirled the hand-sized item around until its mouth was directly facing the bucket. Some firm squeezing did the trick to getting a couple of drops out of it and letting it fall onto water.
D.C. watched with keen eyes as those slightly much bluer drops slowly fused together with the water, giving it a good shake if he had to. ‘Hydrogen peroxide, quite effective in bleaching stains, especially blood,’ he had a quick assessment as he continued looking on, making sure that he could no longer make a distinction between two different substances, ‘but it does… well, affect the coloring and polish of furniture. Perhaps I’ll have to experiment some other cleaning agents if time permits...’
He blinked upon seeing the clearness of the liquid. Almost likened to a mirror, although it rippled and changed shapes when in contact with a mass more solid. For example, his hand. Curious and yet a little dazed like that of a goat’s, D.C. let his fingers submerge into it and dance along. Moving its ever-so changing surface as he willed it.
And as soon as he raised his hand, it slipped so easily out of his grasp and back to where it belonged. Its surface still reflecting the image of a man whose face remained unknown from all the clothed layers of his gear. And especially the latex gloves that covered his hands.
‘Unlike this water, my hands’ all covered up from the stains it had gotten.’ There came a forlorn of a smile as he thought this.
He supposed that was a sacrifice he had to make for searching for someone who turned to a life of crime. But for now, onto the second last area he had to mop up. Such sentiments can come later. So with a shake of his head, he gave it a rest and continued his work.
With that waiting all done, one hand grabbed hold of the bucket and the mop with the other. Then, he stood up and moved on forward.
Pacing through the wide-open area until a certain door was in front of him, he lifted his arms a bit higher, having his tools as close as he could. Then, with the front of his boot did he gently push open the door.
And as he entered the room, D.C. took notice of the hardwood making little creaks beneath his rubber boots. The floor could have grown worn from old age. Or better yet, it had grown all too loose from the damages that came from Santa, seeing as some edges of the tiles were slightly sticking out. But repairs and minor renovations were outside the realm of his job description, so the thought went away as quick as it passed through his head.
D.C. studied the interior of the place. At a first glance, the room looked to be a normal-looking office with bookshelves and desk drawers. Although with some eye squints to clear up his vision, the place was just as morbid as it was the rest of the workshop. In a much lesser degree, he had to admit.
Not much blood spatters in the ground with the body now gone into ashes in the fireplace, he observed–
Or so he thought. His ears picked up at the sound of crunch and his other senses heightened when he felt the weight grabbing at his boots until he pulled away with force. Curiously, he looked down to see a puddle of blood and shards of whiskey bottles at his heels. He shook his leg, ridding his boots of those tiny shards and a couple more in case a few ones stuck to the heels.
As D.C. did so, he took note of the sticky feel that the blood possessed which also fell off his boots. ‘The stickier it is, the more recent the blood was spilled here,’ came such an immediate assumption. In other words, this must be the last room Santa stayed in before his next whereabouts became unknown.
He breathed out, the airs coming out of him had carried a certain weight to it. ‘Perhaps he ran here, to his safe haven after the deed was done,’ an added speculation to which he perceived to be one of the likely cases.
This unnerved him, but alas continued his work he had to. His gaze then shifted to the right side and upon setting it still on a certain furniture. When that working desk appeared in his line of sight, a pair of indigo eyes could only grow in horror.
It seemed like a key clue was suddenly revealed to him, all present in that desk. ‘I didn’t think it would be so out in the open like this,’ he was filled with discomfort by it in all honesty, ‘and so personal, too.’ And most of all, D.C. disliked the idea of being privy; so brazenly intruding into someone’s private affairs and picking at each and every single thing like a vulture. All done so without the consent of the original owner and not that of his client’s. It made him want to look away, but he kept at it without much of a choice.
After all, it was part of his job to take, clean, and dispose of everything, that his clients found of no value, in sight. ‘I keep telling myself it’s my job and that such emotions should be for later, but really. Really… when will I ever get used to this? To all of this?’ He couldn’t help wondering as he looked on that working desk. The lids of his eyes and hands twitching.
The thing in particular, that he was reluctantly looking at, was not looking all pretty at all. The items that were strewn about and on its wooden surface were several dozens of TNT, whiskey bottles, Molotov cocktails, and shotgun shells. There was even a straw doll that had been impaled by a large nail at its chest. His eyes wavered a little at the sight.
Signs of increased alcohol intake.
Signs of distress and pressure.
Signs of intended killing intent.
It was all too much to take in, still he moved closer. Two unsteady legs took him closer to that desk as if invisible strings were tied around him and compelling him to move, regardless of his thoughts. He had his head bowed down, looking at the letters that were as messily placed in that table as the rest of the items were. And though those many thins of paper slipped past his notice…
D.C. saw them now and its contents. The bucket and mop had been left to the ground, temporarily forgotten as his arms stretched over the edging surfaces of the table. Some papers lightly touched his fingertips, some not. A keen gaze skimmed through each of them, the whites of his eyes growing even more than the last. How he wished he didn’t, but it was too late for that.
He knew now. All the letters were addressed to Santa, but not of the pleasant kind: outrageous demands from children, a plead of bail money from his brother, an invoice detailing the large bill for toys and presents from a company, a blackmail letter, complaints from his labor workers, a tax sued for destruction of property and other charges, and a receipt for the weaponries.
An unpleasant feeling, that he couldn’t exactly name, settled its way into his chest. The more he read through the letters, the more he understood and how it confirmed his suspicions. To think Santa…
The very symbol of joy and hope in the time of Christmas,
Whose stories had been retold time and time from the mouths of parents to their children so that they could inspire and lead them into the ‘right’ path,
And the one who had painstakingly travelled all around the world in just one Christmas Night, just to bring well-intentioned gifts (or rewards, for better wording in his perspective) to good children.
To think that he would succumb into a state that one can never quite return from. How painful it was for him to admit this fact. ‘After all, I was once a kid, too,’ he contemplated to himself with a dismaying sigh as more thoughts rushed to his head, ‘who believed in him.’
All the accumulating stress and the helplessness and anguish when desperately trying to reach up to the standards of what your role had required of you. And yet, only to receive half-hearted and fake praises with none of that care and support that only their wide mouths could mouth off. To drain you more and more of what you could offer to the world until there was nothing left. Just an empty husk in the end. Such an awfully familiar sight and experience, he recognized that from someone else before.
‘That boy,’ against his better judgement, D.C.’s mind drifted to such notions, ‘I wonder if this is how ‘he’ truly felt. Just like Santa…’ He then bit his lips and brows furrowed, unsure of what to make of this once it escaped him.
He stood there for a short while, motionless and unsure before clasping his hands together and close to his chest. With eyes firmly shut.
In the next several minutes, he snapped back to reality by prying his arms away from the table and having his cleaning tools back into his hands. His back turned to it, purposely not looking back. After all, he was just a murder scene janitor; someone of no power nor identity.
There was nothing else he could do for Santa nor ‘him’. All except for a little prayer.
And so, he returned to cleaning.
After dusting away ashes and cinders and then storing them in an empty bucket, D.C. returned to tossing presents into the fireplace. One by one did the boxes with brightly colored wrappings and pretty ribbons fell from his hands and into the roaring fire. He watched as those things were slowly reduced to nothing.
Of course, he had mixed feelings about throwing them away; on one hand, he could’ve given them to their recipients without much trouble as their names and addresses had been written in the gift cards attached to each present by a string. But on the other hand, it made him think twice. After all, he’d read their letters and recalling them now caused his stomach to churn.
Their nonstop demands of a rather pricey reward, in return for some acts of common decency…
It astounded him and not that of a pleasant kind. No, definitely not. And so, without much further thoughts, it led to this outcome; it would be for the best if they were unable to receive it. Not that those children will be truly grateful for Santa’s sacrifice, to the point of exhausting him of his finances and sanity, when they can just demand their parents to do the same.
It would be nothing special for them. ‘The miracle of Christmas, that is,’ he regarded this notion with a heavy heart and feelings of sorrow that didn’t quite belong to him. Nonetheless, it was suffocating all the same.
Yes, it was better this way. Such was his take on this certain matter and tried not to feel awful about it.
With a persistent shake of his head, D.C. cast away such disheartening thoughts and moved on with another to pay attention to. Right, there was still the thing about unlocking the door of the basement. For every contract, murder scene janitors were provided with all the necessary tools. But due to this particular one notifying him at a moment’s notice and some of his tools in the middle of their monthly maintenance…
He came to this workshop, lacking some of them. And that included the tool necessary to pry a locked door open without damaging it in the process. Such was the predicament he was stuck in. Without the tool, he was not sure of alternative options to get the basement doors to open.
‘Really, M.O.T.H.E.R. is such a difficult client,’ his shoulders slackened and a sigh left him upon imagining his client’s scowling face. He was uncertain of what horrid fate awaited him if the latter discovered that he couldn’t solve a very simple issue such as unlocking said door without damages being done to it.
Really, how difficult he was.
As he felt his will power faltering like a deflated balloon, D.C. was quick to assert his sense of duty to himself, ‘still, work is work and I must see to it that I finish it, no matter what obstacle comes my way! I’ll have to figure out some other way–’
A sudden interruption marked a temporary end to his thoughts. In disbelief, he turned his attention to the gift before him. Even with latex gloves, he sorta felt this all too peculiar of a warm and silky texture. He could almost compare it to a blanket. A purple wrapping that possessed such a texture, how odd.
He took a closer look on the thing, his nose wrinkled in concentration. The star patterns on the white ribbon had shone brightly and in a variation of slight colors; the more he twirled the box around, the less it seemed like glossy stickers and more like dusts that were made from a real gem. Another odd thing, he noted.
‘What’s with this unusually expensive-looking present?’ He lifted a brow in response to the gift he had in his hand. The way it was packaged with all these finely-made qualities for materials, the other presents couldn’t even hold a candle to this one. With his interest piqued, he searched for its gift card. And when he did find it and lifted half of the card to find out the recipient of this present, he could only blink in confusion the next minutes later.
There was no name nor address, instead a symbol (that you’d often find from problems of a math lesson) was printed on it in a bold font: an empty set symbol at that.
‘This,’ a firm line had shaped his lips and brows narrowed upon listing all these points, ‘doesn’t seem like a gift meant for a child, but that you’d expect of the boss from a syndicate. But how come?’
He couldn’t understand it, he couldn’t understand as to how a present of that purpose was among with those that were not. As to how it fitted in without much detection. Well, at first. After all, the letters made no references to a gift like this one nor did his contract mention it.
If it was of value, surely his client would definitely bring his attention to it.
‘Unless Santa was involved in a criminal activity and smuggled it in to avoid detection,’ another possibility that might–
His eyes narrowed, vision quickly darting to the sight in front of him. His thoughts had long since fled from him the moment he took notice to a shadow slowly looming over him, as reflected by the light of the fireplace. His grip on the present tightened, the same went for his jaws. Fear and panic coursed through him.
He didn’t think Santa would return…
Sweat dribbled down his temple, but he made no effort to wipe them away. Lest such an action, even the small notable ones, will incur the wrath of the larger and not-so jolly man. Thankfully, his back faced the latter so whatever subtle movements he did would not attract attention.
With that in mind, carefully did his hand reach for the tranquilizer in his pants pocket. As he heard the steps grow closer and louder, D.C. slowly lifted the syringe while popping its plastic cap open. Though his heart pounded loudly against his chest, he kept a steady focus and waited for the right time to make his move.
“You don’t have to jab that narcotic into me,” much to his surprise, he heard a low-pitched feminine voice instead. Then, it continued, with a scoff at that, “what I’m after is that present you got there and not your life.”
In response to the unexpected turn of events, he could only blink. Just mixed bubbles of confusion and unsureness swirling around his head.
“What? You’re not going to say anything?”
A few seconds later, he saw a dainty hand hovering his own that held the purple box and to which he instinctively pulled away, far out of her reach. He panted a little as he did so, from the exhaustion finally crushing down or his muddled head coming through? That he didn’t know.
Well, at least he knew it was not Santa who stood behind him. The knowledge of that was a relief to him.
However, even with his nerves no longer stiff, he still kept his guard up. After all, he knew nothing about the lady behind him. Except for the fact that she wanted this specific box.
“Isn’t it rude to not face the person talking to you?”
He winced, not from her remark but rather from his lack of urgency. His mind had been too caught up in Santa’s personal affairs that it left no room for other matters such as this unexpected encounter. With a sigh and the tranquilizer back into his pants pocket, D.C. turned to her.
He fought the urge to tilt his head to the side, not anticipating her to be so young. After all, she was a little more than around the height of his waist. Perhaps almost to his chest? He wasn’t sure due to the lenses of the face shield proving to be of poor quality. ‘Then again,’ he told himself in immediate reminder, ‘people do say I’m unusually tall.’
His attention returned to the young lady standing in front of him. Like him, her identity was unidentified especially with that porcelain-white fox mask concealing half of a pretty youthful face. All he could make out from her (although, as useless as these few details were) was that she was someone of great fashion taste; a soft, purple-tinted trench coat with white fur in its collar and cuffs and a pair of boots reaching up to her knees. With which seemed to be made of cotton twill fabrics and cowhide leather.
How he knew? From his aunt, of course. Back then, it had been endless days of shopping trips with her. Back when he still lived a normal life. ‘Strangely enough, I miss those days,’ he tried not to frown when a fleeting thought came by.
But no, this wasn’t so important now. Shaking his head to remove himself of needless distractions, he then replied, “I apologize for such discourtesy, it’s been long since I conversed with someone on the job,” with a tone seemingly friendly and harmless before shifting to another topic that made it sound more cautionary foreboding.
At least he tried. “But don’t you think you should be more–”
She cut him off, a slight smirk on her lips as if she already expected this response, “you’re a murder scene janitor who’s gotta clean up some mess an old man has made and I’m just a thief who wants to hit it big, so I don’t think there should be animosity between us.”
And before he could open his mouth to respond, she continued after what seemed to be a quick look at him, “and besides, I know for a fact that your current client is M.O.T.H.E.R. so that’s all the more reason for animosity not to come between us.”
And at the end of her sentence, she chuckled lightly with a hand to her mouth. At that, his gaze drew to it. There he saw that though the skin folds looked almost free of unwanted traits, there was no denying the very tiny and wrinkly lines that peeked through. Though almost invisible in the naked eye, it was there. On some of her dorsal side and some on her wrists.
‘She’s not as young as she appears to be,’ was his brief examination of this stranger, resulting in him holding his guard more, ‘and more than that, she knows who my client is. This encounter can’t be a coincidence.’
As if she sensed his intentions behind the silence, the lady rolled her eyes, saying, “as I’ve already mentioned, I have no interest in your life but the pretty gift you have there.” Like her point hadn’t gotten across for the second time, she added more emphasis by lifting an idle hand and pointing at it. Very specifically in the direction of the thing.
He stared at her and then back to the present in his hands. ‘What would a thief want in something like this–’
Upon being struck by realization, he stopped. Straight on ahead did he look at her and inquired from her, “tell me: what symbol does this present have?” He made sure to keep the gift card completely shut and away from her gaze.
With a clever smile and eyes shining with immediate recognition, she answered, “an empty set symbol, am I right?”
Ah, he knew it. “Gangs and syndicates have a way of marking their property, so I assumed as much. But how come this one ended up in Santa’s gift sack?”
As if his words carried some weight of recalling, the lady clicked her tongue in distaste. Then, she replied, “some idiot from my clique has mistakenly placed the gift in there and instead of what we specifically instructed of him,” while waving her hands so dismissively at the mention of ‘some idiot’.
Not to mention, clique and not gang? That seemed too fancy of a term to use. ‘But that’s not none of my business…’
All in all, with that being said, he knew extra caution around this stranger was no longer a necessity. An unlikely encounter, but not someone who posed a threat to his duties. He breathed out as if releasing the burden he’d been holding back and out of his system.
With an obliging nod, his grip on the present loosened and slowly stretched his arms out. He told her, “well, since this gift isn’t listed nor acknowledged in my contract. I’ll just return it–”
An exasperated shout cut him off, causing him to look wide-eyed at her rather violent body language. “What? No taunting and a brawl?!” He was almost convinced the ground literally shook from her stumping. Such vigorous strength for someone petite.
“The most we murder scene janitors could do… is, uh, immobilize any suspecting intruders and contact our clients for backup,” said he with a nervous laugh. D.C. could certainly sense her glares attempting to burn holes at him.
‘If only looks could kill…’
The speed of her waving hand grew more furious as she stated this, “this won’t do. Without any sort of challenge, retrieving this would hardly mean anything to me… even if the contents of that thing are priceless and that’s worth both of our heads.”
Ah, so this was her ego and pride as a thief talking.
“I apologize. Even if you ask me to, there’s nothing much I can do–”
Another cut off from her had come. Her fingers snapped high up in the air and he saw bright hues of purple behind that porcelain-white mask. Thus, she so proudly exclaimed, “oh, I know!”
He knew his face was unrecognizable because of the medical mask and face shield, nonetheless stiff lips tried to let out a serene smile from all beneath the clothed layers. He asked in the same manner, “what is it?”
She leaned forward, her figure seemingly closer to his with one hand on her hip and the other giving him a big thumbs-up. Huffing out in glee, she replied, “I could help you unlock the door to the basement if you so wished.” Again, he saw that clever smile on her face and felt chills crawl up his spine.
‘She seems to know about this particular contract more than she lets on,’ even though the hazmat suit prevented others from seeing their faces and facial expressions, he cast a suspicion stare at her, nonetheless. ‘That or she’s been spying on me…’
With his mouth quirking to the side, very much indecisive about the prospects of getting help from a stranger. “But…”
“Would you prefer incurring your client’s wrath more than having me assist you?”
Whenever she leaned closer, he’d take a step back. Those sharp pair of eyes that looked straight ahead, with neither the malice nor hostility he was often subjected to, at him was rather overwhelming. It unnerved him to think that he couldn’t figure out her intentions behind those eyes nor her smile as they never gave away anything.
Malice and hostility were easier for him to deal with, at least he could tell when such sentiments would morph into actual motions and him countering them in return.
Not… not this.
“Well?” The pinkish gloss on her lips seemed to shine more from her standing in this particular spot of the fireplace. He averted his eyes a little the moment the realization of it came to him. Another step forward from her as she went on, “I’ve heard rumors of M.O.T.H.E.R. being quite the mad scientist. You never know if you do end up as a guinea pig of his.”
And he moved backward, his thoughts all muddled at her presence and the conflict of either option being presented to him.
And another reason to his hesitation was…
“We hardly know each other, so why are you insistent on helping me?” This, exactly. He knew what she said before, but there must be more to it.
From the corner of his eyes, it caught such a sight. Those purple hues gave off a piercing glint as those long lashes narrowed in deep contemplation. He tried backing away yet again, but only for his back to come into contact with a wall. He was trapped between cold cement and her.
And from her did he hear her steps moving forward and closer to him. Then, a final click of her heels resounded once she stopped, hardly enough free space between them. With both arms now crossed to her chest, she answered, “thieves aren’t tied down to a code of conduct, right?”
A brief nod of his head in response and she continued on, “instead, we’re driven by desires and urges; we do as we please and we take as we please,” with her smile widening into a more sinister look. At least it was to him. “It doesn’t always have to be money or a prized artifact.”
And it should be that way to him, but…
Thump.
If that was the case, how come he felt his heart skip a beat? What an odd reaction coming from him. But never mind that, he needed to do something about this! Before the situation treaded into a path he didn’t want it to go to, in nervous haste he said, “alright, alright. I’ll gladly take you up on your offer!”
He sighed in utter defeat. He had to choose between two unfavorable outcomes, thus the less damning unfavorable one did he pick. By doing this, he admitted to a lack of experience in his work…
And besides, he could not tell what M.O.T.H.E.R. would do to him if he failed. It already gave him the creeps, given how villainously creative that man can be. The last time he recalled someone getting on the latter’s nerves, that scientist invented a spider-like android that crawled around ceilings, its mouth producing rather inhumane noises, and had some of its impressively long limbs dangling then disappearing the next second. It did all this while stalking its target a little too closely. Well, for one’s personal space.
It went on consistently for months until the person developed a condition called bathophobia and never saw long hallways the same way again. Right, he would never want to be the center of attention for that man’s ire, no matter how short-lived it may be.
‘I honestly don’t know what’s worse; that invention or the Slosh-O-Matic.’ He swallowed down his nervousness before turning back to the smiling lady in front of him. Yes, better to entertain this lady’s little fancies, whatever that may be, than facing that outcome. Absolutely not that outcome.
“Come on then, let’s get going,” she said in a sing-song voice, her hand motioning for him to follow suit. Then, with her back turned to him, she skipped in her toes as she strolled out and about the room. Right behind her was him moving in a much slower pace and the same gift at hand.
On their way to the basement without a word from them, D.C couldn’t help his eyes being drawn back to the purple box in his hold. After having processed everything that occurred in his head, he came to a realization; this thing was the last of the presents that was from Santa’s sack and he was giving it away to a thief of all people.
Even if its existence among the Christmas batch being an unintentional mistake, he felt discomfort creep at the pit of his stomach. To him, it felt like playing god and choosing favorites based on his own perception. Deciding to burn almost all the presents due to the letters of outrageous demands from the children who still had done their best to ‘behave’ and then deciding to return this one to an outlaw because this thing was what they owned through stolen riches…
Truly, what a hypocritical way of thinking. He released a dismaying sigh at the notion of it. Perhaps he shouldn’t have–
“We’re here.”
He snapped out of his thoughts once he heard that. His feet stopped in its tracks, although he almost bumped into her. All because he was too engulfed by his own pondering that led to a delay in movement reaction. Really, how laughable was he.
Always so distracted on the job, that sure was him.
‘Seriously, I can’t even take a few minutes to stop fussing over every single thing,’ another sigh had come out of him and a hand scratching the back of his head that was completely covered by a surgical cap and the clothed layer of the hazmat suit. ‘Anyhow, focus, focus.’ He told himself over and over like a maddening chant before looking over to the lady’s progress with the locked door.
Much to his surprise, what he saw in her fingers was a firm piece of rectangular-shaped plastic. It was impolite to point one’s finger at something, so instead he asked, “don’t you guys usually… erm, use a lockpicking set?”
But it seemed to be just as impolite, given that pointed stare she sent his way in response. “Is that how people of other professions see us do?”
Upon sensing her tone tilting closely to that of a brittle irritation, he froze up with thousands of excuses rushing through his head. Then, with arms flailing about in an anxious manner, he stuttered out, “uh… I apologize, I mean no d–disrespect! It’s just that the others I’ve seen have their… erm, own large kit with them at all times and use them if they feel like demonstrating their expertise.”
Merely shrugging her shoulders, the lady brushed it off, “huh, just a bunch of con-artists.”
‘But aren’t you one as well?’ He wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut and nodded a bit.
After much contemplation with the right words, he addressed the tiny item in her hands as she pushed it through the gaps of the door, “so, a credit card works better?”
“Yep, for this kind of door, it’s more effective and faster than a lockpick.” Anyone who swore by the power of lockpicks must’ve been offended by this remark, if even a little.
“Though I appreciate the help, I feel terrible if you use your credit card on…”
Immediately, he got interrupted with an idle wave and a nonchalant retort, “no worries, it’s not mine.”
Ah, no wonder her rather casual usage of it and then there was that high probability of it becoming bent afterwards.
“And it’s done. See? Took no less than half a minute,” and she even pushed the door open as proof. Her other hand throwing away the bent credit card like a piece of junk. He made a mental note to pick the thing up and dispose of it in the fireplace or some other way once he was done cleaning the basement.
“…Thanks,” it was all he could mutter out. It was really a relief that his face was unrecognizable in this outfit. For all he knew, he could be breaking out into some nervousness breakdown with his eyes and mouth wildly twitching at the probability of the door being damaged. Even if a little.
Thank goodness that wasn’t the case. The door and its casing were in top shape and the latch had popped back into plain sight. He felt weight leave off his shoulders as his gaze moved away from it and back to her. “Really, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Like what they had agreed upon, D.C. carefully handed over the gift to her and to which she received in the same manner. While doing so, he ended up peering over her shoulders and was greeted with an all too familiar sight. Right, more corpses to burn, more blood to mop, and more hazards to dispose of.
At least it was the last room for him to clean before calling it a day.
As if she sensed his gaze lingering from a little interior insight of the place, she pivoted to her back and examined the same thing. “It’s not looking pretty here either,” was her casual comment.
At that, he raised a suspicious brow at her. He had earlier thoughts of this possibility – of that she was spying on him – but he decided to let it go the next minute. After all, thanks to her, he could clean this place up and without incurring his client’s wrath. “Right…”
With a polite bow, he tried bidding her farewell, “well then, this is where we part ways–”
“Wait.”
“Uh, yes?”
There he saw it again, those eyes that had the same reflection. “Say, you seem more of a law-abiding citizen than a janitor who cleans up after someone’s dirty work.”
His back straightened and his hands were frozen stiff at his side. He knew what she was hinting at, but the thought of spilling out everything to this stranger… brought immense discomfort to him. ‘There’s no way I can just tell her that I’m looking for someone,’ D.C. mulled over it, his fingers rigidly curling into a shaky pair of balls. He’d rather not have anyone else use that knowledge as blackmail material against his will.
After all, in the social circles of murders, contract killers, the mafia, and thieves, who can you exactly trust?
Gathering up some courage despite his persisting uneasiness at the topic, he replied as casually as he could, “I… I have my reasons.”
“Well, I’ll just have to figure it out then. One way or the other,” he staggered back, startled by their sudden closeness once more as she leaned a couple of inches to his direction. Purple eyes stared up at him with an intensity of an emotion that he couldn’t quite place.
‘This lady really is trouble,’ was all he could think of in that exact moment and…
With fluster rapidly reaching up to his face and a heart that couldn’t stay steady.
He could hardly tell what trouble awaited him, with her around.